“Reality TV isn’t exactly high art,” I noted one day over lunch. Little Man was sitting with his feet propped on the edge of the desk, but he’d had to slide way down in his chair to make it happen. His paper plate took up most of his lap. “I love Starry Night as much as the next guy, but you can only stare at it for so long,” he said. “I change reality. I change what people think.” “Okay, Van Gogh,” I said. “Too much?” he asked. I shrugged. “It must be nice to have a talent, though.” “You have talents,” said Little Man. “Like what?” “Reaching high shelves,” he joked. “Flirting for tips,” I
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